Garlic scapes are those eccentrically curly flowering stalks that grow out of garlic bulbs in the springtime - amusingly described as looking like a cross between a plant and an octopus.
If you're lucky you might come across bunches of them in a farmers' market. On the other hand, if you happen to have shuffled your Mum off to a respite hospice you might find them growing in one of their sheltered and well-tended gardens from where you can pluck a handful unobserved.

You can serve them up quickly cooked on their own as a side dish or starter, use them in pesto, soup, add them to a stir-fry, serve them with pasta or chop them into salads. They taste a little harsh raw, but the flavour mellows surprisingly when cooked.

When not stealing garlic scapes from Marie Curie, I've been popping into The Star Inn on my way to and from visiting Mum (though it turns out that Harome is not that close to the A1 and includes some pretty crappy roads).
I got to try their famous Black Pudding and Foie Gras combo and after complimenting him on the surprising crispness to his fried foie gras, that nice Mr Andrew Pern gave me a few pointers for getting my weeping, saggy livery pillows to turn out something more like his:

• it's essential you begin with slices of fresh, high quality foie gras
• get your pan blistering hot to seal the liver
• let the slices gently cook through to completion at a lower temperature

Exactly how he both scorches the outside, but then continues to cook his foie gras slabs at a lower temperature I'm not sure - I wonder if he just slaps the liver into the pan, flips it, then leaves it to cook through off the heat? Most of the advice I've seen involves searing the liver in a smoking hot pan for only 30 seconds on each side then rest for 1 minute on paper towels before serving.
You might consider scoring the first side to cook too, or even dusting with flour to generate that extra crustiness.

Not only was his foie gras exquisite, but his accompanying reduced apple chutney was thinner, but crunchier than mine, suggesting that I'd reduced mine a little too hard. I wondered too if he might have added a second round of cubed apples after reducing, to maintain a level of fresh crispness whilst still managing to generate such plentiful rich jam?
To top everything off, Andrew's decorative apple slice was beautifully caramelised using a blowtorch too - rather than pan-frying as I had. I think that gives a better-looking result.

Anyhoo, I also had a fantastic Tournedos Rossini there for dinner, served with their own paté de foie gras, which inspired me to make up some of my own. With mixed results.
I'm going to have to do a lot better than this if I want to serve my own Rossini!

Sophie is sixteen - only two years away from being an adult!
In celebration she asked me to organise a sushi (and tempura) evening for her and 9, no 6, no 5 teeny friends. So I mostly did an extended re-run of the last sushi meal the Eldorado girlies helped to organise - except without Larry The (sadly eaten) Lobster.

Faced with the perpetual problem of what to cook for a mid-week dinner?
Just do what I did - crack open that jar of foie gras you brought back from your last French skiing holiday, stuff a couple of duck breasts and voilà - a quick meal for three. Assuming you already have a starter, some braised red cabbage, mango sorbet and creamy diplomats on hand.

This week I will be mostly eating stuff from the back of the fridge.

...Where I found some Halloumi lurking. It had been lurking for quite a while (it's not my favourite cheese) so I invented an aubergine dish to use it up. It was so good I'd consider buying more Halloumi just to make it again!

Next to the Halloumi was the remains of a jar of home-made pesto that I'd once used to coat a slab of salmon so I decided to work on another taste sensation that I've got a hard-on for: peanuts and pesto. Having once been surprised at how well crushed peanuts worked on a salad dressed with pesto, I've been searching for other ways to combine the two. I had a go at grinding peanuts into that pesto crusted salmon nope!, then I thought I might just try pasta with peanuts and pesto.
I figured the nuts would need to be considerably less crunchy if they were going to be at all palatable on linguine, so I boiled up a small bag of roasted salted peanuts in stock (well, water with a spoonful of Marmite in it) for half an hour or so to soften them, then threw them on top of the pesto pasta. I chucked the leftover softened peanuts into my Imam Kustu, so all was not wasted.

Meanwhile my temporary flatmate Doctor Jenny has been on holiday from her Edinburgh holiday, but returned briefly to collect her washing.
So I deep-fried the fatted calf for her dinner.

Well, of course, we didn't really have a fatted calf - my freezer isn't big enough for one, so we had deep-fried buffalo wings with ranch dressing instead and I baked some of the leftover barbecued spare ribs (sadly pre-barbecued and pre-packaged from Costco) that have been hogging space in the freezer since my Birthday Barbecue. Maybe I'll be able to get a calf into the new freezer, when I've finally emptied and replaced the one I've got?
As a break from all that fat, I bought a pack of four organic beetroots and mixed up a wasabi-flavoured version of Joyce's beetroot and horseradish salad which also went very nicely with the Imam Kustu as it happens.
To cook the beetroots I boiled them unpeeled in diluted white wine vinegar with some caraway seeds, rosemary and dill - since that's what I had lying around.
What beetroot I didn't use in Joyce's salad I grated over bowls of mixed salad greens dressed with a vinaigrette flavoured with bruised caraway seeds for a nice and simple salad that was also pretty tasty.

As if Doctor Jenny hadn't been pampered enough already, I also treated her to some experimental mashed potatoes with whisky-poached prawns which were enthusiastically received. Maybe that's what she's looking so excited about?

Later my ex-partner Rachel announced a short-notice visit by our mutual friend Mary Poweroff, or at least it was short-notice for me - I'm sure Rachel knew all about it in plenty of time. Anyway, it gave me the perfect excuse to use up the other Reblochon cheese I brought back from my recent French skiing trip. This time I decided to make a smoked salmon Tartiflette replacing the original bacon (though without the frying). I added a few tablespoons of sour cream which you could also serve as a topping - I think most of the extra liquidity actually comes from the fish rather than the cream (and some chopped dill) too - so it was a bit sloppier than the bacon version, but still delicious.
Rich, but delicious.
To go with I made Elizabeth David's courgette and tomato bake; there's a meatless theme here - can you tell? Rachel's eldest Sophie ate (and ate and ate) with us, and she's now joined the legions of the vegetarian - the horror! Between the four of us there wasn't a spot left either, so I must have done something right :)

Speaking of creeping vegetarianism; what with the astonishing indoctrination of the younger generation by today's militant and unashamedly political teaching profession, it's really only a question of time until meat is banned. You already see the steady terrorising of meat as horror stories about the dangers of bacon, sausages or cow flatulence persistently infiltrate our news media.

So, my question is: What will the world look like when the skills and abilities and (*shudder*) opinions of these brainwashed youngsters are valued above those of their elders?
Don't think that's gonna happen? Don't think that's already happening?
Ask yourself what capitalism most desires:

• A gullible, undiscerning, painfully fashion-conscious consumer, vulnerable to advertising and peer-pressure.
  Read children.
  
• Products which change rapidly, are highly obsolescent, and are indispensable to a certain lifestyle or peer group
• Methods of production which are facile to implement, require little training, education or scholarship

then look around you.
All that's thwarting this consumerist nirvana is youth's lack of disposable income. And that's where you old geezers come in (apologies to any 'yoof' reading). Too set in your ways to continuously re-organise your lives around the latest fads, too reluctant to endlessly shell out for products that last no longer than the time it takes to unwrap them, you need to be divested of your assets so they can be redistributed to the young.
Expect a two-pronged attack:

• Promotion of the young:
  • foster the view of children as small adults
  • develop resistance to the idea of disciplining or controlling children and invent syndromes that require recalcitrant children to be appeased not opposed
  • praise the maturity of 'modern' children and encourage their independence:
  • promote the idea that children require ever earlier sexual education sex sells really well
  • press for a reduction of the voting age and promote the political engagement of ever younger children
• Demonising of the old
  • scaremonger an 'ageing population'
  • present the elderly as expensive and unproductive - an increasing drain on precious resources
  • represent the retaining of homes with unused rooms by the elderly as a form of squatting - and accuse them of preventing hard-working families from affording suitable houses.
  • introduce mechanisms by which the elderly can be forced to liquidate their assets to pay for their subsistence or their health-care.

So Sophie - in answer to your question do I think that the voting age should be reduced to 16?: Fuck You!

Fortunately, despite consumerism's best efforts to render obsolete any need for knowledge or experience, I know that ain't happening with cooking anytime soon (young Masterchefs of the year not withstanding) so my continuing utility is sinecured.
But the rest of you better watch out - you have been warned!

I'm not a racist but...

I was catching up on my Question Time viewing and enjoying watching the pompous bigotry of Peter Hitchens do battle with the mountainous hypocrisy of Diane Abbot when some idiot in the audience demanded that Hitchens define what it means to be British.
Apparently he's written an entire book on the subject, which he was keen to advertise, but I can answer the question for him in a single sentence:
To be British is to hate foreigners more than you hate other Britons.
To hate Americans, Muslims, Belgians or the Jews more than you hate the Irish, the police, Pippa Middleton or southerners.
And the reason why multiculturalism is so damaging to British society is that it breeds communities who have more affinity for foreigners than they do for their neighbours.

So the other night, in the interests of promoting cultural integration I went along to join the McTSingh Roadtrip and chow down on that most British of foods: curries.
It's not a meal - it's a political statement!

Since the unfortunate closure of Tony Singh's excellent restaurant Oloroso I've been looking for a chance to interrogate him about my failure to reproduce his delicious Bhangra Burgers, so I booked onto his latest venture - a popup restaurant that he calls his roadtrip. Although to date it only seems to have travelled as far as Freeman's Cafe in Marchmont.
We arrived there to find him busily setting up his barbecue outside, from which all manner of tasty goodness issued over the course of the banquet (menu below). The service was very smartly organised with a lot more waiters than plates - ingeniously we were required to keep the same plates for all the savoury dishes just having them periodically cleaned off.
My favourite dish was the spicy, soupy, sambal. The most entertaining definitely the curried salmon bones(!). The least interesting was the vermicelli dessert. Fortunately I'm not big on desserts, but I do like a good kulfi. Which we didn't get.
It was pretty easy to buttonhole the man himself in the intimacy of such a small café-venue, and I got some good burger pointers as to what I was doing wrong that I look forward to putting into practice. One day. Plus we had a very nice dinner in a fun atmosphere with a bunch of like-minded people that made for a really pleasant evening. I'd have a popup dinner again - providing I had a popup appetite.

For bonus points - we made off with some of the table's farty salt - sorry about that Tony!
Top Tip: Girls - don't smuggle farty salt in your handbag: it makes them smell funny.

I'm back from a veeeeery long ski holiday in the French Alps (Les Carroz don'cha know) with a group of instructors from the Firbush outdoor centre.
Naturally they're all quite experienced skiers, which made the eight full days on the slopes quite hard work for someone who hasn't skied for about 5 years, and who wasn't all that great to start with.
Despite winning the medal for the fallingest skier, I survived the trip even if it did take over a week for my legs to recover.
Possibly from that wipeout when my kneecap did its best to pop itself off my leg.

We took a self-catering apartment - so naturally we ate well, taking turns to cook dinner for everyone. I turned out a depressingly unauthentic moussaka-lika (honestly, the pun is better than the dish), but a very tasty and well-received pan-fried chicken breasts wrapped in bacon (as opposed to that other kind fried on a dustbin lid), glazed carrots with orange and honey, served with boiled potatoes.

We allowed our budget one night out on the town and I sampled the local speciality Tartiflette for dinner at a very homely restaurant Le Neve in the village square.
I also enjoyed their version of Crème Brûlée, which they flamed off at the table with a shot of the local wormwood-based hooch génépi (vaguely related to Chartreuse).

On the return flight I filled out my baggage allowance with local meat and cheeses including, naturally, a couple of Reblochons so I could have a go at my own tartiflette.
I have to say it was every bit as good as theirs.

Christmas is over - time once again to start frantically inventing novel ways of using up the leftovers. Lots of leftovers. I say frantically because it's now been 3 weeks and counting and even the cheese is starting to get a bit suspect!

It's also a handy way of feeding Doctor Jenny, who's moved in with me while she operates on sick children.
Well, someone has to do it now that rapey Uncle Jimmy is no longer available.

Although she's complained bitterly about the lack of dinner choice she gets from being cooked for and waited on hand and foot, I have noticed that on her days off all she eats are my leftover leftovers, so I must be doing something right.
To be fair she also complains bitterly about the absurd length of time it takes me to get her dinner on the table. As we should know full well by now - girls need feeding instantly.
Must cook faster, must cook faster.

I had to use up the leftover goose first since it started getting a bit whiffy, which I did by just wrapping it up in tin foil with a handful of dried cranberries, a few par-cooked potatoes, quartered onions and choice herbs then roasting it in a low oven.
Then I ate it with some pickles right out of the foil like a tramp.
Yum.

'Tis the season.
Again.
Merry 2012 to one and all - what's left of it!
Here's everything which makes today such a special time:


Hopefully sometime in 2013 I'll find time to finish writing about my fabulous fiftieth birthday week OMG!

Last chance to practice my Christmas Starter. Alex and his new inamorata Caroline were kind enough to volunteer this time. So I've zeroed in on the Zirbenz sausages with the pommes dauphine, and the red onion marmalade. This time I'll be serving them with a very satisfying stuffed artichoke starter, an excellent aromatic cauliflower, and some quick and easy mini Christmas puddings to finish.
Yummy!

I kind of wondered if lamb chops would cook alright straight from frozen.
It turns out the answer is yes - a nice slow roasting works pretty well, though they need a bit of crisping up under the grill to finish, and the skin was still a tiny bit leathery.

I served them with a (unnecessary, as it turns out) onion and rosemary sauce and I also made a stab at some lovely filled potato gratins though you'll need a couple of griddle pans to prepare both dishes as served up during my birthday treat dinner at Andrew Fairlie's (thanks Doctor Jenny!). His were better!

Not that my dinner guest would have noticed - turning up late and chomping through the food like a starving navvy: You know who you are.
Really - I don't know why I bother sometimes.